


Stranger than Fiction

by corvidae9



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2020-05-01 18:31:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19183366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corvidae9/pseuds/corvidae9
Summary: Harry is rather good at a job he hates, but (mostly) unbeknownst to him, it’s a total fiction. Draco Malfoy ruins everything as usual.





	Stranger than Fiction

**Author's Note:**

  * For [misterfist](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=misterfist).



> I was amused by your prompt! But I may have taken some liberties with it. I hope my embellishments are still within acceptable tolerances, including BFF!Hermione as a key co-conspirator. :D <3 Thank you for being here for the community! And thank you, sesheta, for keeping the fest up and running all these years!

_14 September 2000; 12:04am_

Harry was confused and headachey; blinking blearily was almost too much effort, meaning that flexing his fingers and toes was definitely too much to attempt. To be fair, he woke up a little like this more often than he cared to admit, but he couldn’t recall quite where he was, and his body was strangely rigid. The couch he was lying on was not at all familiar, and he couldn’t quite--

“Potter,” said a sickeningly familiar voice from somewhere over his shoulder. Harry tried to whip his head up to look but found that he absolutely could not do so. It was only then that panic began to set in.

The crime scene. The dark wizard. That poor kneazle. He had not been out drinking-- he’d been on the job. And he hadn’t expected this attack.

“Don’t,” came the voice again. “I had to bind you and knock you out. Do you remember?”

Malfoy. Harry’s eyes narrowed, but all he could manage was a guttural growl.

“I know you don’t have any reason to believe me,” said Draco Malfoy as he came into Harry’s line of sight looking strangely… tense. The Slytherin crouched down to put himself at Harry’s eye level. “And if I were you, I definitely would not believe me, but.” He puffed out a breath, then gracefully knelt on the ground in front of the sofa where he could still make eye contact with Harry. His bright blonde hair was only the slightest bit disheveled, a single razor-straight lock flopping down over his left eyebrow. Malfoy’s eyebrows were knit in a way that Harry had only seen once or twice before, and his gray eyes were intent on Harry.

“But I want to remind you that I did everything I could to help you --even though you’re an insufferable glory hound-- and I eagerly gave up everything and every dark wizard I knew of once you’d killed What’s His Nose. And as an adult, I have never tried to injure you, even though I can’t fucking stand you.”

Harry’s brows were now also knit as far as he could manage to knit them (it wasn’t very far). The situation was ridiculous, unbelievable. He began running through his wandless magic exercises silently in his head, hoping there was some way to get out of this, and for the first time, he was regretful that he had been allowed to keep working without a partner. Malfoy brought his hand up and Harry flinched, expecting a wand. It was instead, a vial.

“This is Veritaserum,” Malfoy said. He frowned at the vial, unstoppered it and swallowed back a mouthful. “And to prove it--” he leaned forward and tilted Harry onto his back, stuck a finger into corner of Harry’s mouth and dumped the remainder in. Harry tried to struggle, but bound as he was, there was nothing he could do as the small spoonful worth of viscous liquid rolled down his throat. “--there.”

Malfoy rolled Harry back onto his side and then sat again, looking strangely defeated.

“I have a story to tell you, and you are definitely not going to like it.”

 

###

_10 September 2000, only slightly past 9am_

“Potter, good. Have a seat,” said Head Auror O'Riordan as Harry entered his office. Her short, bright red hair reached almost Weasley levels of brightness, even shot through as it was with gray, and as she pinned Harry with her sharp gaze as she finally glanced up from the open file on her desk, he had difficulty working out whether she was displeased with him in particular, or whether it was just another Monday.

Harry got the impression that Head Auror O'Riordan didn't like him very much. Ever. Which was fine in that Harry didn't really like the job very much, so they were probably even.

“Potter, are you listening?”

“Yes ma'am. You've got a special case for me and I'm not to bollocks it up or even discuss it outside of this room.”

Just because he didn't care much for her pronouncements didn't mean he was fatally stupid, after all. She gave him a suspicious eyebrow but kept speaking as she said a file across her desk towards him.”

“Malfoy?” asked Harry, supremely confused. “He's been cleared of all charges. He's been a witness for the state in at least five different Death Eater trials. He's worked directly with the Department of Mysteries. He's a wanker, but if he's a dark wizard, I don't know when he has the time for it.”

Draco Malfoy was staring at him from the wizarding photo immediately within the file, expression haughty in its loop of tipping his chin upwards, looking away, then looking back.

“Yes, well. While some of you were fooled by his act, the Ministry has been investigating further. Details are in the file, but the evidence is incontrovertible. You are to bring him in.” She paused for effect until she caught his eye again. “Alive, if possible, but--” O'Riordan finished the sentence with a slight shrug, “--but circumstances are often out of our control and you are of course expected to defend yourself with all necessary force.”

Potter narrowed his eyes trying to hide his confusion even as he nodded and answered slowly, “Understood, ma'am.” He couldn’t actually fathom why she was insinuating that he should outright execute Malfoy in the field, but it would do no good to say so at this moment.

“Get moving. I expect a daily report on your efforts, delivered in person, until this business is put to bed.”

“Yes ma'am,” Harry said, even more distractedly. O'Riordan frowned at him.

“Dismissed.” 

Harry stood with a nod and turned on his heel. He exited the Head Auror's office through the small reception area, frowning in thought, and managed to collide with an office page and his handful of lunch boxes.

“So sorry--” the page mumbled, keeping his face down as he collected the tumbled boxes. “Apologies Auror Potter, I'll just be on my way.”

Harry had already set to helping gather boxes. “No, that was totally my fault. I wasn't watching where I was going.” He straightened up and offered what he held. The page was still looking at the two boxes in his own hands and somehow gave the impression that he was averting his face on purpose. A memory sparked in Harry's head.

“...Have we met?”

“No sir, no. I, err. You're just recognizable,” the page mumbled as he awkwardly took the boxes. “Sorry. I have to go--”

Harry tilted his head at the retreating page, willing the memory of where they might have met to surface. After a moment, he shrugged and headed to the lift. He couldn't shake the unease of the file in hand and he couldn't help thinking the page's hair was the wrong color, but he couldn't say why. At the lift, he hesitated for only a moment before diverting from his plan to return to the Auror pool and requesting a ride straight down to the Department of Mysteries.

 

###

_14 September 2000; 12:08am_

“I was approached three weeks ago by someone claiming to be a representative of the Ministry with a proposition,” Malfoy said, running a hand through his hair in one of Malfoy's trademark stress tells. Harry would not admit to knowing that to anyone but himself, but when you spent a significant portion of your teenage years following a bloke, you got to know them fairly well.

“You know that your people have used me as their favorite pet witness since the War. I've given up memories, my wand, and my resources --among other things-- to exonerate myself, but despite all that, I'm basically on Ministry probation for the next fifteen years of my life at least. I can't travel freely, I can't use an unregistered wand, I can't--” he made a moue of disgust, “--do a lot without the Ministry's permission or oversight and I'm bloody well tired of it. So when this… _bastard_ made his offer, I perhaps did not think hard enough before agreeing.”

Harry frowned, intrigued. The lingering flavor on his tongue was familiar enough to know that Malfoy had not been lying about the potion he had poured into Harry's mouth and his own, which only meant that Harry was even more confused that he had been to begin with. And still bound.

“Mmph,” he managed. Malfoy made a concessionary nod in his direction.

“Agreed. That's as close as I'll ever get to admitting error, especially to you. Wanker.” Malfoy snorted a weak laugh. “And now you've got me sounding like a common Weasel.”

“Mmph,” Harry said more angrily, narrowing his eyes. Malfoy shrugged.

“I realize that I’m going to have to set you loose eventually, but I need to tell you one more thing before I do, because as much as I love this, it's going to really piss you off, Potter.” Malfoy had the nerve to look mildly amused at that for a brief moment before his eyebrows knit again.

“You've been had, Boy Who Lived Twice. All of your collars have been setups. You are the Ministry's pet celebrity.” Malfoy leaned in a little. “Every ‘dark wizard’ you've caught has been hired by the Ministry or bribed as part of a plea deal because you're too important to risk, and I know this because I'm the most recent. Only I am also apparently a special case.” Malfoy blew out a frustrated breath. “I’d be a lot more amused if it didn’t turn out that they’re actually trying to send me to Azkaban.”

Harry stared, forgetting for a moment that he was supposed to be trying to escape.

Well, shite. His life suddenly made a lot more sense.

 

###

_10 September 2000; 9:32am_

“Auror Potter to see Unspeakable Granger, please,” Harry said politely to the empty foyer of the Department of Mysteries. He tamped down the urge to tap his foot while holding a reasonably good counterfeit of a polite expression in place for the minute or so that it took for a door to open onto a corridor that slowly lit up as it led deeper into the Ministry basement.

“Thanks,” he offered to no one in particular, and set off down the corridor. There were no doors in the smooth, dark walls; in fact there were no discernible features at all save the sconces every two meters or so that were still in the process of lighting one at a time. After what felt like an eternity in the oppressive hallway, a door finally appeared, adorned only with a simple nameplate that read, ‘H. Granger’. 

Harry knocked gingerly and was rewarded with a familiar voice calling out, “Come in, Harry.” He turned the knob and stepped into an office that could not actually exist.

The room was a curious combination of bookcases lining all possible walls, interrupted only by windows that opened onto various impossible locations. One window appeared to face a twilight seascape featuring dazzling cliffs lit by a full moon; another faced a meadow in sunlight, filled with flowers and buzzing with life; still a third directly behind Hermione’s desk appeared to look in on the vast stacks of a library that couldn’t physically fit into the Ministry basement, but there it was nonetheless. It didn’t matter that he’d seen it before, Harry was always impressed.

He offered up a tired smile for the witch behind the desk and flopped gracelessly into one of her guest chairs, feeling if not ‘better’, then perhaps ‘comfortable’ for the first time since he’d left home that morning.

“Hey, Hermione. How’s it going?” 

With her formidable hair held up by several pencils in a large and lumpy, but neatly controlled bun, and in her gray, Muggle pantsuit, Hermione might have passed for a young librarian anywhere on the planet. The fact that her desk was cluttered with strange items that included the skull of what might be some large reptile, several huge leatherbound books, and a large, rotund, loudly purring ginger cat said more about the unusual nature of her work than even the wizarding robes hanging from an unseen rack to the left of her desk. She raised a single, remorseless eyebrow at him.

“Really?” she deadpanned. Harry shrugged and absently offered Crookshanks a skritch.

“What was I going to start with? ‘Mate, my life is a shambles and I’m still certain I don’t belong here, but now I’m sure O’Riordan is setting me up’?”

“May as well,” said Hermione with a sigh. She set her pointedly-a-pen-and-not-a-quill down as Harry slid the file over to her.

“I’m not supposed to say anything to anyone, but--”

Already paging through the file, Hermione said, “--you have little regard for rules or authority?” She picked out a particular page and held it up, frowning.

“There’s that,” agreed Harry, “but you’re an Unspeakable, you have knowledge of the subject, and I need help. Since I can’t talk to anyone else, you’re a logical choice. Also, you’re the smartest person I know and the best at saving my arse.”

“...Malfoy? But he didn’t--” Hermione mumbled, interrupting herself as she turned the page sideways. Harry leaned forward and craned his head to see what she was looking at. “--no.” She snapped her fingers and a magnifying glass materialized in her hand, which she immediately applied to her inspection of what appeared to be a surveillance photo. After a long moment, she scowled and set the photo down. Harry still had no idea what she’d seen, but he knew better than to interrupt while she perused the list of charges.

“This is… not entirely out of the realm of possibility, I suppose,” she said finally, “but also entirely too…”

“Neat?” Harry offered. “Pointless? Stupid?”

“Exactly,” Hermione agreed. “And if there’s one thing I’ve learned about Malfoy, he’s not stupid. Arrogant, entitled, and entirely self-serving, perhaps. But not stupid. What would his motivation even be?”

“I’ve no idea.” Harry scowled harder, which was saying something. “But this was meant for me, one way or another, and now I’ve got to figure out why.”

“I hate to say it Harry, but this time, I think you may be right.” Hermione sighed and sifted through the file again, adding under her breath, “After all, everyone knows Malfoy is your weakness.”

He would have scowled even harder, but there are indeed limits to the human body. Worst of all, she was probably not wrong. 

 

###

_14 September 2000; 12:11am_

“Even though a body bind, I expected... Well. I don’t know what I expected. Explosions? Righteous indignant anger? Flickering lights? That’s one of your trademarks, isn’t it? Honestly, I’m surprised this idiotic plan worked at all. I assumed you’d just automatically win as usual and I’d be snogging Dementors over breakfast,” Malfoy said, then looked annoyed all over again. “Damn, I said that out loud. Bloody potion.” He sighed and finally did pull his wand. 

“If I release the bind, are you willing to listen before hexing?” Malfoy asked. “Because I’m sure that I would put up a good fight, but if I damage you then I’m definitely arsed.”

Harry mumble-slurred what he hoped sounded like a ‘yes’ to the best of his ability, and after a moment’s hesitation, Malfoy dispelled the curse. Harry flopped properly onto the sofa, coughed, then pushed himself up onto his hands and scrabbled briefly in the attempt to sit up. Malfoy hadn’t lowered his wand even as Harry coughed again and again. As the coughing took on a curious note, Malfoy tilted his head at Harry. 

“...Potter? Are you laughing?”

“Oh my god, Malfoy,” Harry wheezed, holding his side as he rolled onto his back. “Fucking priceless.”

Malfoy stared, mouth slightly open.

“I didn’t intercept you so I could take you in,” Harry managed with a hiccuping sigh. He took a shaky breath and sat up, rubbing one hand across his face. “I came to warn you that you were being set up.”

 

###

_10 September 2000; 10:13pm_

Sitting in his darkened study on the topmost floor of 12 Grimmauld Place, Harry had read the file several times over and it still didn’t make sense. Statements claimed that Malfoy had been involved in smuggling dark artifacts using one of the shadier storefronts in Knockturn as a front. A DMLE report filed claimed that the shop owner had been harassed and extorted, but Harry happened to know that the silent partner of the shop in question happened to be Pansy Parkinson, Malfoy’s best mate since childhood, and if he’d been causing trouble with her shopgirl, Parkinson would have handled it personally. Yet another report claimed Malfoy had been involved in a high-profile disappearance only the previous month, but he’d also been vacationing at the time. With Pansy… who had sent Ron an owl carrying a wizarding photo of Parkinson and Malfoy looking supremely relaxed, in large straw hats and sunglasses at some beach bar. He had, in fact, no doubt Ron would have it still, and probably on his person. 

Yet, the warrant stated that Malfoy was being brought in for Practicing and Promoting Dark Arts, Trafficking in Dark Artifacts, Animal Cruelty for the Purposes of Dark Arts, Extortion, and Conspiracy to Kidnap, charges that could send him directly to Azkaban for quite some time. Charges that were also clearly trumped up if not outright false.

So, the question had become, who was so connected, and had such a grudge against Malfoy that they could get the warrant approved and handed directly to Harry on the hush-hush? 

Harry shut the file with a disgusted grunt and took another sip of firewhiskey.

 

###

_14 September 2000; 12:14am_

Malfoy’s eyebrows were ratcheted up a high as they could go. He opened his mouth, then shut it again, and when he tried to speak, it was only a sputter. “What? You’ve known all along?”

Harry coughed out the last traces of laughter, his voice still scratchy. “I mean, I knew as soon as they’d handed me your file, but mostly you had Ron and Parkinson to thank for staying so quiet about their-- whatever it is. I suppose no one assumed that I’d dig deeper into the case, because frankly this job isn’t hard--”

“Potter,” Malfoy interrupted, leaning forward. “I’m not the only one. Perhaps you didn’t hear me-- _All_ of your cases are staged. Tell me you didn’t know.”

“Honestly? I had a feeling something was off, but I couldn’t put my finger on what. They let me work on my own, gave me low-profile collars with the excuse that I had to work my way up, and none of them were much of a challenge.” Harry shrugged. “I mean, fuck the Ministry. But it gives me something to do with my time and anyway what else am I going to do? There’s nowhere Wizarding I can go where I’m not The Boy Who Bloody Well Lived and Often Is Apologetic About It.” He cursed the Veritaserum even as he felt oddly relieved for having said so out loud to someone, even if that someone was Malfoy.

Malfoy rubbed at his forehead looking even more agitated.

“You absolute tw--”

“DMLE!” 

 

###

_13 September 2000; 9:14am_

“You wanted to see me, ma’am?” Harry had received an interoffice memo stamped ‘urgent’ asking him to see Head Auror O’Riordan that had flown directly into his chest the moment he had arrived at the Ministry that morning some few days after their initial meeting about the Malfoy case, and as such, had redirected his forward motion directly to her office.

“Come in,” O’Riordan said with a cursory glance. “Close the door.”

Harry complied and stood for another moment before she waved a wand over what she had been reading. The parchment folded itself into another memo, though this one took on an unfamiliar shape before launching itself into the air, diving to slip under the door and disappear. 

“Ma’am?” Harry asked.

“Malfoy.” O’Riordan said, reaching for yet another scrap of parchment. Harry opened his mouth to make up some bullshit status, but she kept talking. “We received information that he’s arranged a drop this evening.” She offered it to Harry. “It’s happening tonight, time and location here.” Harry made to take the slip of paper but O’Riordan held onto it, creating a tangible bridge of tension between them. She glared at him, hard. 

“Potter, I don’t need to tell you how important this collar will be to your career. Not to mention the public good.”

“Yes ma’am,” Harry nodded, pulling the most earnest face he could as she finally released her end. “I won’t let you down.”

“Debatable,” she said, returning her attention to her desktop, “but try not to die. Bad PR.”

Harry narrowed his eyes, and the wall sconces all dimmed momentarily. O’Riordan looked up again. 

“Weird,” he said through a tight-lipped smile.

“Dismissed,” she grunted, and Harry needed no further excuse to escape. It looked like he had just enough time to make one more stop in the building, and probably not enough time to sort out exactly what was happening before his newly-confirmed evening appointment. 

 

###

_14 September 2000; 12:17am_

“DMLE!” 

The shouts were loud, deep, and probably spell-assisted, and accompanied by the door exploding inwards in a spectacular display of poor police work. 

Fortunately, even if Harry hadn’t seen Malfoy swallow the Veritaserum to know that he’d been telling the truth, he would have known from the fact that his wand was exactly where it should be, and thus easily accessed. He lunged at an alarmed Malfoy and took him to the ground as a narrowly-missed curse sailed overhead. Another curse caught the sofa and caused it to explode in a burst of stuffing and cloth fibers, followed closely by a shout of, “Careful! Potter may still be alive in there!”

Pinning Malfoy as he was, Harry wasted no time before slipping his arm around the very confused Malfoy’s shoulder. He tightened his grip, focused on his destination, and Disapparated.

“What,” he panted as they rematerialized on the cold kitchen tiles of 12 Grimmauld Place, “The. Fuck.” He’d shifted his hand to prop himself up over Malfoy, who managed a shaky smirk. It wasn’t the first time Harry realized that he could read Malfoy’s state of mind from just the angle of his mouth, and he told himself not to stare.

“My hero,” Malfoy said, breaking Harry’s train of thought with what was almost his usual insouciant tone.

“Ha,” Harry breathed, suddenly all too aware that his torso was essentially lying on Malfoy’s while actively trying not to stare at his mouth. “Uh,” he awkwardly levered himself up, offering a hand up as soon as he was on his feet. “I guess.”

Malfoy hesitated only slightly before accepting the offer. He stood, released Harry, and dusted himself off, making a show of taking in the surrounding room. “I swear, Potter. Tackling me to the ground transformed you from a big bad Auror into an awkward sod all over again.” He turned his attention back on Harry. “You can’t possibly have that little experience knocking a bloke over.”

Harry’s entire face turned a shade of pink normally reserved for turning down offers of blind dates with “nice single witches” during Sunday dinner at the Burrow. He chose to ignore the comment in its entirety and instead turned his back and focused on rummaging in a cupboard. 

“Alright, so, your flat is not in as unknown a location as it would seem,” Harry grumbled as he turned on the tap and began to fill a battered kettle. Malfoy tilted his head and grimaced. 

“Are you-- making tea?”

“Yes,” Harry said, slamming the kettle down onto the burner with more force than strictly necessary. “Is there a problem?”

“They came bursting through my door casting curses unseen,” Malfoy said, leaning into the words while pointing at the nearest door as though he knew where it went. “How are you so certain they won’t do the same here?”

“They can’t,” said Harry with a handwave that only further infuriated Malfoy, who clenched his empty hands. Harry turned, and proceeded to begin digging through the refrigerator, trying to corral his thoughts again. “It’s Unplottable and protected with a now-unbreakable Fidelius.” He held up a take away box. “Hungry?”

For not the first, and likely not the last time, Malfoy stared at him, incredulous. 

“Are you joking? You’ve just learned that your career is a lie, you’ve been forced to save _me_ by running from said employers, and now you’re _making tea and raiding your icebox_.”

Harry straightened up with several containers in hand, and an apple hanging out of his mouth. He slammed the door shut with his foot and used a newly-freed hand to retrieve the apple, which came away with a loud crunching sound as he rebalanced the boxes.

“Malfoy,” he said, but it sounded more like “mmpffy”. He chewed, swallowed, and tried again, pointing around the apple. “I hated that job anyway.”

Malfoy threw his hands up in exasperation. “So you’ve quit your hobby job. And I-- am now a fugitive who may have kidnapped the Great Harry Potter?”

Harry brushed past him with his armful of food, headed for the scarred table. “That might be a bigger problem.”

“They will drag me to Azkaban the moment I leave your… _house_ , Potter.” Malfoy didn’t bother saying anything else about the state of his domicile, but Harry was alarmed again that he could almost finish that sentiment himself in a proper Malfoy fashion. He sat with a fork in hand and tapped one of the boxes. 

“The hell they will,” said Harry, watching Malfoy as he began to pace the length of the kitchen. Something in his chest tightened as he processed the worry on the Slytherin’s face. “Hey, seriously.” He held out a box. “When was the last time you ate?”

Malfoy paused. 

“It’s Chicken Vindaloo from that new place on Diagon Alley.” 

“It’s cold is what it is,” Malfoy groused.

“It’s got charms on it,” said Harry, pointing at the happy cartoon chicken on the box. “Just poke that square there with a fork.” Malfoy fixed him with a withering stare, and Harry couldn’t help but provoke him. He plastered on the widest grin he could summon and slowly, deliberately poked the cartoon. The four-color chicken squawked and begin to morph into a roasted chicken, complete with steam lines, and Malfoy’s gaze swung between the chicken and Harry for a few agonizing moments while Harry came into full recollection of what it was like being pinned by that stormcloud gaze. And then Malfoy snorted a derisive laugh and it was all over again.

“Imbecile,” Malfoy grumbled as he snatched the container. 

“Probably,” agreed Harry, stabbing at a bit of chicken. 

“Good to know the Veritaserum hasn’t worn off,” said Malfoy, now holding a box filled with steaming food but still casting glances all around the kitchen.

“How do you know I can’t resist it?” Harry said, fortunately this time after swallowing his mouthful. “I can do almost everything else, right?”

Without so much as a break in his glare, Malfoy snatched up a fork and sat around the table corner from Harry. “You’ve never been able to before.”

It was Harry’s turn to furrow his brow, “Huh?” Malfoy chose that exact moment to fork food into his mouth and look away. “Oh, no-- I can wait for this one, Malfoy.” he watched Malfoy chew and swallow and open his mouth again just as the kettle began to whistle. Malfoy gestured toward the range. 

“I believe you’re the host, here, Potter.”

Without taking his eyes off of Malfoy, Harry offered up a negligent handwave in the direction of the range, just enough to shove the kettle off of the heat and leaned forward. “How?”

Malfoy’s gaze darted to the kettle and back. He caught his bottom lip in his teeth so briefly that Harry might have missed it if he hadn’t been staring. Malfoy opened and shut his mouth, as though recently pulled from a watery home and still struggling. “Fuck. Fuck me. I mean, fuck you,” he ground out, before setting the box in his hand down with a moue of disgust. “Snape.”

Harry’s eyebrows shot up. “What? but--”

“I inherited his library. He had--” Malfoy growled and looked away, and Harry suddenly had the unbidden thought that he fervently hoped no one ever asked him while under the influence of Veritaserum what that sound did to him. “Journals.”

“About me?” Harry asked.

“No, idiot. Everything. Which unfortunately included you.”

“Snape wouldn’t have written that down,” Harry said. “He was a right bastard, but he wasn’t stupid.”

“It was heavily charmed and disguised inside a poisonous volume of an outdated botanical. It’s likely to have dissolved into a toxic sludge for anyone else, and I wouldn’t even have found it if I hadn’t gone looking for… something specific.”

“Oh?” Harry asked with a smirk, “Tell me about it.”

“I--” Malfoy started and then sat up. “No.” He smirked. “Ha.” He took a tentative bite.

“Hrm,” groused Harry, realizing his mistake in not being specific enough. “Cannons or Arrows?”

“Arrows, Obviously,” Malfoy said unthinkingly. “Also, again; fuck you.”

“Cannons or Puddlemere?”

“Anyone but Puddlemere, but the Cannons are chav garbage. So, tragic pitch collapse for the win.”

“Ouch!” Harry said with exaggerated feeling. “Chocolate or Vanilla?” 

“Chocolate, and anyone who says differently is lying or wrong,” Malfoy returned, adding before Harry could get another one in, “Hogwarts or the Ministry?”

“No competition,” Harry said without hesitation. “Hogwarts is imperfect but the Ministry is a screaming dumpster fire.”

“Weasleys or your Muggles?” said Malfoy still smirking around his fork.

“Weasleys. Ass,” grumbled Harry, his smile almost completely gone. “They don’t all sleep in one room, you know.”

“I know,” admitted Malfoy with a shrug. “And their paterfamilias isn’t a convicted Death Eater, so point, Weasels.”

Harry stopped eating and peered at Malfoy. As much as he’d known about the Slytherin, he really didn’t know stupid, important things, and was alarmed to discover that he really wanted to find them out. Funny thing about Veritaserum-- no one tells you that it makes it harder to keep one from lying to oneself, too.

“Don’t,” Malfoy warned, setting his own box down. “This was such a fucking stupid idea. And do I really have to get my own tea?” He stood and began opening cupboards. “Do you even have tea?”

“Yes?” Harry ventured, watching Malfoy struggle. 

“...It’s beginning to look like you really might not. Barbarian,” said Malfoy as he opened one last cabinet and frowned.

“I have to know, Malfoy,” said Harry, standing, regretfully abandoning his takeout box to join the search. “Do you have a list of insults you plan to use on me, or is that list for the public at large?”

“Huh. I really don--” Malfoy stopped and actually looked thoughtful for a moment. “Yes. It’s mostly for you. I started it first year.”

Harry snorted a laugh. “Good to know I hold a special place in your regard,” he said as he held up a bottle of recognizable amber liquid that gave the impression of containing flames in the otherwise empty headspace. “It’s not tea, but--”

Malfoy eyed the bottle, then Harry. “A Fidelius, you said?”

“Yes,” agreed Harry. “The original secret keeper is dead, and the new one is brilliant and unimpeachable.”

“Granger,” said Malfoy with the tiniest sneer.

“Yep,” agreed Harry again, already acquiring mismatched tumblers.

“Muuu--” Malfoy said, stopped, cleared his throat and tried again. “Muggleborn or not, I believe it. I’ve seen her in action. She’s frightening.”

Harry burst out laughing; a genuine laugh that echoed through the small kitchen and even Malfoy had to smile in response. “Mate, you have no idea,” Harry said, tucking the bottle under his arm and heading for the staircase. “Come on.”

Dubiously but with little choice, Malfoy followed.

 

###

_13 September 2000; 11:00pm_

The location described on the parchment may as well have been the set of any penny dreadful set any time in the last two hundred years: A poorly-lit cobblestone alley overhung by dilapidated shop signs and shabby awnings, which along with several crates and a dented dumpster cast ominous shadows everywhere. So many places to hide; so many potential sources of danger. Harry was Disillusioned, standing in the spot he’d been in for coming up on two hours now-- the darkened alcove between the boarded-up apothecary and the scarred wizarding pet supply storefront, waiting. Waiting for Malfoy, who if the parchment was to be believed should be appearing any moment now. The large clock in the business district square distantly proclaimed the time to be eleven PM, and Harry tensed. 

Fifteen minutes later as Harry began to wonder about the information, Malfoy stepped through the boarded door immediately to his right. No board was broken or even disturbed; in fact they appeared intact once Malfoy had cleared them, and Harry made a mental note to inspect the illusion later, a note that he almost instantly discarded as he focused on Malfoy. 

Carrying a leather case roughly the size of a breadbox, Malfoy darted a cursory look over his shoulder and crossed the alley. He looked tired but alert, and Harry waited and watched. Malfoy reached the unmarked door across the alley, set the case at his feet, and drew his wand. He began to mutter under his breath and draw his wand over the door, leaving an oddly familiar sigil glowing white on the surface. Harry took the opportunity and muttered, “Accio case.” The case responded immediately and flew across the alley towards Harry’s outstretched hand. Without lowering his wand, he shouted, “DMLE! Don’t move, Malfoy, I--”

He didn’t have the opportunity to finish. Malfoy had turned and hissed, “Petrificus Totalus!” even before Harry had finished his sentence, a contingency for which Harry really should have been prepared, he thought as he seized and toppled over. The case hit the wall behind him and smashed open, and what appeared to be a mummified kneazle hit the ground next to his head, looking him in the eye and seemingly chastising him for not believing the worst of Malfoy. At least Hermione would know where to start looking once he failed to check in.

Malfoy hurriedly crossed the alley and leaned over Harry. “Ugh,” he said with a grimace when he caught sight of the kneazle. “That was unnecessary.” He grabbed Harry by the lapel of his coat and added, “You’re not going to believe this, but I’m not here to hurt you.” 

Harry looked as confused as his petrifaction allowed, wondering if he was imagining his own intended words coming out of Malfoy’s mouth. Malfoy looked up and down the alley again, before saying, “Somnius.”

He was already unconscious as Malfoy tightened his grip and Disapparated with Harry in tow.

 

###

_14 September 2000; 12:47am_

Harry opened the door to his study at the top of 12 Grimmauld Place and gestured grandly. “Welcome to my inner sanctum.”

Malfoy walked into the room and couldn’t quite contain the fact that he was gawking. 

“What?”

The room was larger than one might expect, built like an old-fashioned conservatory, with high ceilings that tilted gracefully upwards. The two exterior walls consisted almost entirely of windows, revealing a sleepy almost-suburb with a hint of bright city beyond, while the two interior walls were plastered in muggle-style whiteboards covered in diagrams alongside corkboards boasting notes and photos, torn-out articles side-by-side with hogwarts yearbook photos. 

“I don’t like feeling cooped up while I’m working,” shrugged Harry. Malfoy was already moving to examine the photos on the large, cluttered desk set some three meters from where the two interior walls came together. He picked up a group photo of a pickup quidditch match that had happened some time in the past year, featuring several Weasleys playing some kind of reverse Keep Away with a bludger, while assorted hangers-on laughed and ducked. For a moment, he looked almost wistful, then he opened his mouth.

“Chang or the Weaselette?” Malfoy asked in an icy tone. Harry shrugged again. 

“Neither. They’re not my type.” Shite-- Veritaserum be damned. Malfoy made a small sound that sounded like, “hrm”, and set the photo down. 

“At any rate,” Harry added, crossing his arms in front of one of the corkboards. “I’m-- damn.” He shook his head and joined Malfoy at his desk, setting the tumblers down to fill them.

“I have to say, Potter,” said Malfoy, turning and leaning on the edge of the desk, “it appears to have taken quite a lot of work to solve fake cases. I’m impressed at how slow you are.” Harry shoved a full tumbler of firewhiskey at Malfoy, ignoring the small drops that slopped over the edge.

“None of that has to do with those cases,” Harry said, taking a long pull from his own tumbler. Malfoy cocked his head at him and he went on. “I snagged all of unsolved cases from the war and have been cross-referencing them with both current Death Eater movement and anything else that might tell me anything useful.” He sighed, turned and leaned against the desk as well in an almost companionable distance from Malfoy. “When I find anything, I pass it to Hermione, who passes it off as Department of Mysteries voodoo.”

“Hold on. Granger is taking credit for all of this madness?”

“Oh, she doesn’t have to. She’s brilliant enough on her own.” Harry snorted. “The DoM is already gobsmacked at how much she gets done; as far as they’re concerned this is just a side project for her. And since she’s an Unspeakable, she’s got free reign for almost anything. As if she needed to get scarier.”

“Then why--”

“I shouldn’t have any of these files. I was told under no uncertain circumstances to keep my head down and stay in my lane,” Harry said with a sigh. “I know you think I’m an unparalleled glory hound, but I just wanted to set all of this right. And not be stared at like a freak or a celebrity or ugh, god. Whatever. Sometimes I just want to run far and fast. But then I think about them--” he gestured to the wall, “--and I know I have to clean all of this up first. For _all_ of them.” Harry took a sip before adding, “Also Hermione and Ron would probably hunt me down within a week. Two, max.” He realized Malfoy was staring again, and he busied himself examining his tumbler of whiskey, somehow only half-full.

“That’s--” said Malfoy, stopping the sentence and trying again. “Are you mad? Potter, you _can_ just get up and leave, you know. What’s the point of fame and money if you can’t do whatever you actually want?”

“I have no fucking clue, Malfoy,” said Harry, shrugging, draining his tumbler and turning to pour another. “If you figure it out, let me know.”

“Wait--” Without warning, Malfoy was moving towards the wall. “Is that-- Flint’s little sister?”

“Cassandra,” Harry said with a nod. “She went missing in the Battle of Hogwarts, but her friends on the scene say that she was doing her best to help the firsties escape. Tracking spells tell us she didn’t die on the grounds, but no one’s seen her since.”

“It’s been three years,” said Malfoy.

“I know,” Harry said, his tone mulish.

“She was a Slytherin,” said Malfoy.

“Yeah,” agreed Harry. “And she was known to quietly disagree with her family and was secretly dating a muggleborn Ravenclaw, so she didn’t go willingly.” He turned to face the board again to find Malfoy approaching him, empty tumbler outstretched. Harry shrugged, reached back for the bottle that he hadn’t bothered corking again and obliged.

“It’s not an act, is it?” Malfoy asked, and it was Harry’s turn to look confused.

“Huh?”

“Saint Potter,” mused Malfoy. “All that talk about interhouse unity after the war, and giving Slytherin old members the benefit of the doubt. You really are trying to be a superhero.”

Harry had to laugh even as he tried to keep a steady pouring hand. 

“I’d be terrible at it,” he said with a disingenuous smirk. “All I do is drink and swear, make disturbing collages like that, and go to my day job where I apparently solve crimes that didn’t need solving in the first place.”

“For once, I’m inclined to agree with you,” Malfoy said, though he didn’t step back. “Perhaps I--” Malfoy suddenly took a gulp from his tumbler and interrupted himself. Harry set the bottle down again and stood a little straighter. “-- should not have rushed through that first drink. This isn’t a terrible distillery, at least.”

“Charlie sends us batches of the good stuff every now and then,” Harry said distractedly, watching Malfoy intently. A flush crept up his chest and throat that had nothing to do with the firewhiskey and he was suddenly very interested in whether the Veritaserum was still in effect. “What were you about to say?” Malfoy blanched. 

“It’s-- bollocks --it’s, I--” He pursed his lips and looked pained as he forced out, “--I may have misjudged you. But you’re still insufferable.” 

Harry laughed, and when he didn’t stop laughing, Malfoy looked around the room as though seeking help, before his nose twitched along with the corner of his mouth, then his face split into a grin that became laughter as well.

“I hated that you were such an ass to Ron when we first met,” Harry managed.

“I hated that you were such a prim halfblood who’d rather pal about with cut-rate Purebloods than me because I was obviously better.”

“I hated all your sneering and lording your money and blood status like it actually mattered.”

“I hated all the attention you got for just existing.”

“I hated that we couldn’t just play Quidditch without our house honor depending on us or some shite.”

“I hated that you were always saving the world and looking so smug about it.”

“I hated always saving the world and having to look smug about it so people wouldn’t see that I was fucking terrified all the time.”

“I hated that you got a Firebolt before I did.”

“I hated that you had a family to buy you one.”

“I hated that my father tried to sell me to that filthy noseless hack.”

“I hated that we couldn’t just go to fucking school.”

“Hear hear,” said Malfoy, who held his shaking glass hand out to Harry, who clinked his own glass to it with another snort of laughter. 

“I hate that I spent a year watching you and I didn’t actually figure out anything important other than the face you make when you’re about to tell a lie, and how you like your eggs, and how you fly when no one’s around. It took a near-death-experience to see you as a person, and not a pawn in a game you didn’t choose.” Harry wiped his eyes, sighed a laugh and took a drink. Malfoy meanwhile, had stopped mid-drink and watching Harry around it.

“And now what do you think of me?” he asked, slowly lowering the glass.

“Err,” Harry said, mirroring the gesture. “You really want to know?”

 

###

_13 September 2000; 11:49pm_

“Where the bloody hell are Potter and Malfoy?” Head Auror O’Riordan demanded of the two Aurors standing in front of her desk. She wasn’t shouting, but she definitely sounded dangerous. The taller of the two, Choudry, a wiry, olive-skinned woman whose dark bun was shot through with gray, visibly tensed her jaw. The other auror, Patterson, an average man of average height and build and aggressively average sandy blond hair spoke first.

“Malfoy seems to have got the better of Potter and Disapparated with him in tow.”

“And you two just let him?!” O’Riordan ground out. Patterson dipped his head, and Choudry spoke up. 

“Here now, ma’am, it happened in a matter of seconds. We were under orders not to place an Apparition lock on the location because Potter--” 

“Is an absolute idiot,” finished O’Riordan, turning her scowl on the Choudry. “Savior of the Wizarding World, my arse. There is no way that shirty little bastard finished off The Dark Lord on his own.”

The two aurors exchanged a glance.

“Something to say, either of you?” O’Riordan growled.

“No, ma’am,” both said in unison.

“Then find them. No excuses. Get me something concrete by morning, I don’t care how.”

“Err, yes, ma’am,” said Patterson. Choudry merely offered a curt, dubious nod.

“Get out,” said O’Riordan, and both wizards turned on their collective heel. It was Hermione’s cue to scurry away from the door that separated O’Riordan’s inner office from the darkened and currently empty reception area and recast her Disillusionment spell once she was safely behind the file cabinet. 

The door slammed shut behind the aurors and they made a beeline for the exit without a glance in Hermione’s direction. Choudry grumbled quietly about crazy bints and bad ideas, to which Patterson held a restraining hand up as he shot a dark look at the closed door. Neither said anything else before they left. Hermione made a note of them to follow up for later, but her focus at the moment was entirely on O’Riordan. She moved quietly back to the inner door, this time with the latest generation of an Extendable Ear (a Department of Mysteries exclusive) just in time to hear the whoosh of a Floo and O’Riordan calling out a very peculiar call address. 

“Is it done?” asked a voice on the other end that was difficult to identify, and O’Riordan began explaining the situation.

Hermione checked her wards, sent a nearly silent message via Patronus, clicked the ‘record’ lobe, and settled in.

 

###

_14 September 2000; 1:13am_

“I want to know,” Malfoy said with a smirk that could only be described as predatory. 

“Fuck you and your Veritaserum,” said Harry, scrubbing a hand over his face. “How long does it last, again?”

“Potter!” Malfoy said firmly. “Am I still a snotty, insufferable monster?”

“Yes! Fuck me though if I don’t want to climb you like a tree.” Harry covered his mouth with his hand and looked thoroughly abashed. “Oh my god.”

Malfoy guffawed, and before Harry could say anything else, held his tumbler up in a mock toast. “I knew it.”

“Please stop talking and just kill me now,” Harry mumbled. “Scratch that; I don’t actually want to die.”

“Don’t feel bad, Potter. I am in fact, wholly irresistible.”

Harry managed an incredulous glare cast wide of Malfoy, who seemed to be closing in. “Whatever. Name one other person who can’t resist you.” It took a long moment for his wording to sink in, and it was then that he realized that if either Death Eaters or the DMLE stormed the room that very moment it would be a mercy. The next realization was that Malfoy’s forward movements had brought him almost toe-to-toe with Harry, and he slowly lifted his gaze to meet Malfoy’s. He couldn’t quite do it yet, though.

“Various and sundry clubgoers in various and sundry exclusive vacation spots,” said Malfoy, his voice pitched lower than it should be. He reached over to set his tumbler onto the desk, in the process leaning right into Harry’s space, brushing Harry’s arm with his own. “Pansy, but she’s my best friend, and that’s a different story. Rabastan Lestrange, and that situation definitely tested my obfuscation skills. A Ravenclaw named Corner that claims he’s been staring for almost as long as you and won’t stop trying to buy me coffee. As if I couldn’t buy my own.” Harry shut his eyes and tried to keep his brain from shutting down entirely, failing when instead of stepping back out of his space, Malfoy turned his head, mouth close enough to Harry’s ear that he could feel the warm gust of breath when he spoke again. “How long?”

Harry’s pulse raced wildly, his breathing shallow as he tried to hold it together. He bit his lip to try to keep from answering, but his brain was turning over Malfoy’s words while his body reminded him insistently that it had been a long time since someone had been this close to him. “I--” Malfoy’s hand made contact with the side of his neck opposite Malfoy’s face and it was like an electric shock; he hissed audibly as Malfoy’s fingers slid up into his hair and used the leverage to pull him closer still; close enough for Malfoy’s lips to graze his earlobe.

“...Parkinson or Corner,” Harry managed to stutter.

“Neither,” Malfoy growled, “But Corner is the right shape.” 

Harry absolutely lost his composure and his grip on his own tumbler simultaneously. He turned to face Malfoy with no thought but to crush their mouths together, and that idea that was met with all of the enthusiasm that he might have hoped for. Malfoy pressed into him, unsatisfied until Harry’s ass went over the top of the desk, until he was finally sitting on it with Malfoy impossibly between his thighs, the hand that had been on his neck creeping down and around Harry’s middle. Harry’s own hands flailed a moment before landing on Malfoy’s shoulders, still unsure as to where to put them until one found its way into his hair, seemingly of its own accord, and the other settled for draping over his back. 

In a short pause for air, Harry gasped, “So I’m the right shape, too?”

Malfoy was busy unbuttoning Harry’s shirt and grinned, a smile that set Harry on fire all over again and said, “Let’s find out.”

 

###

_14 September 2000; 12:03am_

There are far more elegant means to disarm, disable, and bind an opponent than a petrificus, and Hermione had learned most of them in the last two years. One of her achievements in fact had been the development of a fantastic little spell that capitalized creating a pocket of artificially “thickened” air that was nearly impossible to escape (which was actually just convincing the air molecules to compress more tightly than they’d prefer, but all pertinent details were in her paper in you’re interested, and thank you). She’d set up a trigger at O’Riordan’s threshold and waited patiently for the damning Floo call to end. As the door opened inward, the Head Auror was suddenly stopped in her tracks with a surprised, “Huh?” It was then that Hermione stepped out of the shadows in her official hooded robe.

“What-- what is this?” said O’ Riordan, becoming increasingly agitated as she realized her situation. “I demand you release me at once.”

Hermione deliberately pushed her hood back. “Good evening, Head Auror. You are being held on suspicion of conspiring with known terrorists, and several other charges that I myself must first finish writing out.”

“Granger! I should have known,” snarled O’Riordan. “You’ll pay for this.” 

“Do you have any idea how many times I’ve heard that?” Hermione huffed in amusement. “Do they make you practice saying it at Death Eater camp?” 

“How dare you insinuate--” began O’Riordan, Hermione interrupted her in a tone that brooked no insolence.

“No,” she said, simply. Hermione made a spiraling motion with her wand pointed downward that caused the bubble to tighten, and O’Riordan’s eyes grew wide as the spell tightened around her mouth in particular. She could only grunt and though she struggled, she had nearly no ability to move at all.

“No more. You’ve done quite enough, and I won’t give you the satisfaction of a monologue. Come along.”

With no further discussion, she flipped her hood back up and exited the anteroom with the bound auror floating before her, heading straight for the lift.

 

###

_14 September 2000; 1:34am_

“I KNEW IT,” came a voice that Harry recognized belatedly, distracted as he was by Malfoy’s mouth on his neck, one hand buried under Malfoy’s also-hastily unbuttoned shirt, the other tightly wound through his spun-platinum hair.

“I told you a year ago that you’d be better off just shagging him and getting it out of your system, but as usual, you were too bullheaded to hear it,” Hermione said as she walked into the room. Malfoy’s head came up immediately and Harry groaned at the loss, staring daggers over his shoulder.

“This conversation can wait, Hermione,” he said icily. Malfoy set his forehead against Harry’s collarbone and made a sound that shot right through Harry’s spine. 

“Granger,” Malfoy said in a voice that made it clear he was still trying to catch his breath. It might have been a greeting or a warning, and she acknowledged it with a half-hearted wave either way.

“Believe me, I agree, and I’m not staying,” she said, rounding the other side of his desk, all business, adding a perfunctory, “Malfoy,” in return. “I just needed this--” Hermione lifted the Malfoy file, shut it and tucked it into her purse where it shrunk automatically to fit. “Both of you stay here until I give you the all clear. Ron, Luna, and Neville are on their way to meet me at the Ministry, I’ve got O’Riordan dead to rights and in a basement cell in the Department of Mysteries, and once I have confirmation as to who’s ultimately behind this and why, we’ll hand the information off to Parkinson to get it in the Prophet, which should mark you both safe enough until the Ministry can finish the investigation. Give us about twenty-four hours.”

Malfoy turned his head to shoot an incredulous look in her direction.

“You’re welcome,” she said without prompting, already heading back to the door to see herself out. “Also, if you see her before I do, tell Parkinson she owes me a galleon. Have fun. Be safe.” She pulled the office door shut behind her.

“I said you had no idea, didn’t I?” said Harry, but before his sentence was complete, Hermione called out from the other side of the door. 

“Better, make it forty-eight hours. Also if you hurt him, Malfoy, no one will ever find the body. Goodnight, gentlemen!” An unmistakable crack of Apparition later, she was gone as quickly as she had arrived, and Harry wondered in passing how he’d missed her Apparating in. 

Malfoy turned a wicked smirk on Harry, who wanted nothing more than to taste it. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew exactly how he’d missed the Apparition crack. He might have missed that theoretical DMLE incursion for the same reason, especially as Malfoy decided it might be a good time to make short work of his belt buckle.

“Forty eight hours?” Malfoy asked, his eyes darting to Harry’s mouth and back. “I don’t think the Veritaserum lasts that long.”

“Fuck it,” breathed Harry. “You can lie to me all you want,” he said, and realized that he meant it. Fervently.

 

###


End file.
